weak
by nonsequiturvy
Summary: In which John is tasked with a special mission to keep Robin safe, and thinks it would probably be in his best interest not to let the Evil Queen down. Missing Year. For OQ Prompt Party.


While life in the castle is not what John would refer to as _dull_ (they have a witch to sabotage, after all, and some unborn babies to save), there's a certain predictability to it that make the day-to-day start to drag after a while.

He thinks it's perhaps their confinement indoors that inspires the most unrest in him. It's all well and good for those accustomed to idling about, to sit in their libraries and hold those meetings that seem endless to him, but John is a man of the forest, of fresh air and the freedom to roam. Thumb-twiddling has never really been much his style.

Because of the dangers lurking ever-beyond the castle perimeter, the Queen has strictly forbidden most expeditions into the woods, decreeing that anyone with such a notion must first seek an audience with her. She has allowed the occasional hunt, when the gardens and lakes do not offer much by way of food, but unfortunately "out of sheer boredom" is not an excuse that ever seems to pass muster with her.

John also can't help but notice that regardless of the proposal, there are certain individuals the Queen will under no circumstances pardon to leave the protection of her shield around the castle.

The Princess, given her condition, is immediately excluded from all talk of venturing outdoors, as is her Prince ("I said _no_, David," the Queen spits out, and the unexpected familiarity in spite of her anger usually makes them pause long enough for her objections to go unopposed). The downside to this, of course, is that the Princess has made a habit of not letting the Queen out of her sight, lest she get ideas herself about leaving.

To John's surprise, the Queen's obstinacy extends to the castle civilians as well, her refusal so readily and dismissively made each time that he doesn't see the pattern, at first.

Granny, of course, is needed in the kitchens, and Belle with her books if they're to find a way to beat that witch. Ruby, who John suspects is feeling just as caged in as he and the rest of the Merry Men are, is "too great a liability" if she gets taken hostage and her wolf side subjected to some kind of magical coercion.

Aside from that pirate man, who'd never lingered long enough to be ordered around one way or another, Baelfire seems to be the singular exception, the Queen either unable or unwilling to demand anything from him; he alone comes and goes as he likes, though John has accidentally half-heard snippets of the Queen receiving his late-night returns with a restrained admonishment to please be careful, "For Henry's sake."

She is not so forgiving where Robin is concerned.

…

To say that Robin and the Queen do not get along would be grossly understating the situation. By the end of their first week in the castle, the sounds of their squabbling had already become as routine as the sky being blue, the both of them too stubborn to agree on, well, just about anything.

John has long since learned to tune them out; it's of little interest to him, whose turn it is to tend to the stables or where that extra bridle might have gone (Robin's affronted "Are you accusing me of stealing?" met with the Queen's disdainful "Did I somehow get that wrong?" in response).

It does entertain him a great deal, however, to watch how they censor themselves when Roland's around.

"Your Majesty," says Robin at breakfast, inclining his head to her.

She never seems to know what to call him other than "thief," so she offers him a stiff sort of smile in return that softens into something genuine the moment Roland looks up at her.

"You're up early this morning," she observes in a playful-sounding tone.

"Unbearably so," Robin agrees, drawing her gaze back to his, and they exchange a more tentative smile this time. "Urgent business that could not wait until later today, I'm afraid."

"Oh?" she inquires, glancing down at Roland again with some amusement.

"I picked this for you," the boy tells her proudly, lifting up a fistful of wildflowers while Robin is suddenly unable to look her in the eye. It amazes John how much that simple gesture seems to break down everything rigid in her, how clumsy she and Robin become around one another without the excuse of something to fight about standing between them.

It only lasts the length of a mealtime, however, and then they've resorted to their quarrelsome ways once more, until even Princess Snow is begging off their company due to the rather timely start of a headache.

Still, for the most part, Robin and the Queen are able to set aside their petty differences without causing too much of a scene. The "proper" way of draining a moat after a heavier-than-usual rainfall, for example. (And here, in some haughty act of defiance, the Queen winds up marching herself knee-deep into swamp water to show him, while Robin cannot resist a comment about how wrong he was to doubt her, truly, and "Would Her Majesty care to demonstrate that little maneuver again?")

When that missing bridle finally turns up – its absence explained by a very apologetic Friar Tuck, who'd noticed a tear in its leather and thought to mend it himself – the Queen actually looks halfway chagrined.

Robin, on his part, does not say a word.

…

The real trouble occurs when they can't see eye to eye on the less trivial things, such as the matter of castle security.

Belle eventually comes across something that has her running to consult with the Queen, and soon thereafter the library takes on the appearance of what John would expect of a madman's laboratory. The two spend the next week poring over their books together and causing the occasional explosion, a shattering of glass and then a vaguely ominous curse cloud that lingers in the hallway for hours, all of it bearing the mark of some failed experiment.

John, who had recently taken to bringing Belle small plates of things he's nicked from the kitchens whenever the afternoons drag, is rather unsure how to proceed with this new development; the thought of the Queen deigning to accept so much as a crumb from him is laughable, to say the least.

"No special deliveries planned for today?" Robin inquires, and when John mentions that Belle's set aside a few hours to help Baelfire out with some other matter and he's no idea where they've gone off to, Robin frowns.

"Her Majesty's on her own, then?" he asks, and actually looks somewhat displeased with John when he can only shrug in an unhelpful manner at him. "I didn't even see her take breakfast this morning…"

Robin's voice trails away as he strides off somewhere, muttering things about doing one's duty and not allowing queens to go unfed. He eventually returns with such an armload of provisions that even if John hadn't spent the last half hour feeling sort of guilty about not lifting a finger, he has no choice but to help carry a thing or two upstairs.

"Tea?" Robin offers kindly when the Queen scowls through a crack in the door at them, John feeling really quite stupid standing off to the side with his small tin of biscuits.

"Belle's not here right now," she informs them in a chilly tone.

"You misunderstand." Robin holds out the tray he's prepared. Her eyes flick to the teapot – still steaming and sputtering out some pleasing floral scent – before they settle back on him, some of her belligerence replaced by what John thinks might be uncertainty this time.

"Please. Take it." Robin meets her gaze, steadying there, and neither of them seem willing to move, his expression somber but earnest while hers becomes searching, the weight of the moment suspending them both as though he's offered more than just a tray to her.

John is beginning to feel as though he's intruded on something when the Queen finally accepts the tea from Robin, her movements stilted while she tilts her chin to an imperious degree, breaking contact, and the moment is gone. Robin ducks his head with a murmur of "Milady," eyes reaching hers one last time before he's turning to walk back the way they had come.

John hovers in place for a few seconds longer, struck by something tender in the Queen's face as she gazes after Robin – it's fleeting, but it's there, and before she can recover enough to notice him staring, he bids a hasty farewell and shuffles off.

Robin's quiet as they descend to the main rooms together, his thoughts clearly still upstairs with the Queen, and if he notices John with the biscuit tin, he chooses not to comment on it.

When Belle and the Queen have made decent headway in their work, the Queen (if not begrudgingly) authorizes a small number of them to search the northern woods for some rare plant needed for the spell she's devised. John immediately volunteer his services, choosing to take no offense when the Queen doesn't protest, if only for the fact that she then tasks him with leading the group.

She even entrusts him with a special blade forged from the only material known to cut through this plant that they're after, though when John ventures to ask where she'd gotten it from, her very cryptic "It was…a gift" raises his suspicions regarding just how voluntary of a "gift" it had been.

Robin is the next to approach her throne, not so much to ask for permission as to politely inform her that he plans on joining them.

"Absolutely not," says the Queen, already waving her hand to send him away. The Princess looks as though she's about to interject, but the Queen waylays her with a single, cutting look.

It's not an uncommon occurrence for her to deny these requests from him, always scoffing at the presumption – "As if he could be of any actual use" – while loudly questioning the motives of "a man who could steal the crown right off a king's head" in the same breath.

Robin hardly ever presses the issue, something about her scowling outrage with him apparently satisfying enough of an answer most days. But the current mission at hand has him refusing to budge this time, smiling blandly when the Queen glances back his way and looks genuinely perplexed to see him still kneeling before her.

"I'm sorry," she says, sneeringly, "can I help you?"

"I'm sorry," he parrots back, "but I wasn't asking."

The Queen stares at him, entirely taken aback for a moment, and John might have thought to be amused – it's a rare thing indeed, to find her this speechless – if not for the niggling concern that this _whatever it is_ between the two of them is about to blow out of control.

"Your Majesty, if it's a question of my safety—"

"Why would it be?" the Queen is more than quick to cut in, her voice disdainful to the very last drop. "You're like a cockroach. Even if I wanted to get rid of you—" She stops herself, as though hearing what she's just said, but if Robin has noticed he doesn't let on.

"Then I confess I don't see what the objection is."

She recovers immediately, lashing out with a contemptuous "No surprise there; your powers of observation are remarkably lacking, for a thief."

"It's fortunate, then, that I'll have John by my side to make up for my own limitations."

John shoots him a discreet little glare, rather wishing he hadn't been brought into this.

"Oh, yes," says the Queen acidly. "He won't have his hands full at all, between finding me what I need and making sure you don't do something stupid enough to get yourself killed."

"So Your Majesty cares after all," says Robin calmly, "I'd no idea," and she bristles as though he's just accused her of some reprehensible thing.

"I simply can't have you compromising this mission," she starts in heatedly, but the damage has already been done, it seems.

"I can't be trusted to get the job done or to keep myself safe whilst trying. Should I be flattered or insulted?"

She glowers, gritting out a snide "Please" which has no impact on him whatsoever, and when Robin reminds her of what the Witch is actually after, that there's no reason to think he'll be in any true danger himself – it's been made abundantly clear that he's of no value to court, after all – the Queen goes deathly silent, her expression stiffening to the point that John wonders if she hasn't indeed turned into stone.

"Is that so?" she wonders at last, the words coming out low and perilous from somewhere deep in her throat. Her gaze has turned hooded, half-predatory, and John can sense the grave slyness of what she's about to say next, as if she's been lying in wait all along for her opening to ask it of him: "And what about your son?"

Robin gives her a long, firm look. "What of Roland, exactly?"

The Queen settles her shoulders back against her throne, almost smug in her posturing now, with one brow at a delicate arch as she asks him, "Do you really think it's wise to go gallivanting off with your friends when you're so dearly relied upon back at home?"

"I had believed I would be leaving him in more than capable hands," Robin informs her evenly. "Forgive me if I was wrong to presume."

"Oh, but that's to say nothing of guaranteeing your return. Accidents do happen." She leans forward again, her features set in a grimly devious light, and she says to him with particular meaning, "I would, after all, hate to see him lose both of his parents."

There's a stirring in the audience, an awkward clearing of throats and the sounds of shuffling while people duck their heads in discomfort. The Prince and the Princess appear as though they're trying very hard not to look at one another.

But Robin refuses to be baited this way, and there's a new touch of heat to his response that the Queen had clearly not been counting on, blinking hard when he fairly demands of her, "Are you suggesting that I would purposely charge into harm's way? Endanger myself without so much as a thought for my son?"

The Queen opens her mouth and then snaps it back shut for a moment, looking slightly stunned by the outburst. "No," she denies repressively, "that's not what I—"

"On the contrary, _Your Majesty_," Robin interrupts, his tone just as flinty now, any last vestige of patience he'd reserved for her all but gone as he continues. "It was your intention to implicate me as a negligent father. Whether out of some perverse enjoyment of yours or to further your own secret agenda, I've no idea, but I won't have it. Not from you."

Her breath seems to hitch at that, those dark eyes growing the smallest bit wider before something shutters in them, the storm there receding until they look oddly empty. She gives the slightest shake of her head, quietly insisting this time, "That wasn't—that's not what I meant."

Robin's anger seems to deflate almost instantly, his forehead creasing as he gazes up at her for several long seconds. She's staring fixedly off to one side, everything held almost unbearably still, and Robin takes a slow breath as he watches her, reading her. His face softens.

"It will be all right, Regina."

His words send another ripple of murmured astonishment throughout the great hall, and even the Princess, seated neutrally beside the Queen until now with her gaze dutifully focused on her lap, finally looks up with a startled expression. John's not certain he's ever heard anyone other than her address the Queen by name before.

The Queen has flicked her eyes back toward Robin, but otherwise doesn't betray a reaction at all, and John wonders if perhaps this is not indeed the first time Robin has taken liberties with her title.

His gaze is unwavering on hers. "You know as well as I that I will find a way, with or without your consent."

The Queen's face is unreadable, but her knuckles have paled over her armrests, her entire body set in such frigid-looking lines that John is left with the faintly absurd notion that a single well-aimed prod might make her crack open.

"I suppose that's true," she acknowledges, the words clipped and strained as though it's required a great deal to say them. She had not anticipated this level of resistance from him, that much is apparent, but the more curious thing, John thinks, is how much it seems to be taking her not to fight him back anymore.

"Then let me do this for you." Robin's tone is earnest now, gentling as she continues to regard him with that strange look of hers, tense and dark and apprehensive. "I know you would rather go yourself if you could, but as circumstances dictate…"

The Queen narrows her eyes at Snow White and her Prince in a condemning fashion, clearly holding them at fault for allowing her to be cornered like this (and in fairness, they have always been the ones most vehemently against the idea of her so much as stepping a foot outside the castle).

"You'll need every capable hand you can get out there, Regina," the Princess speaks up at last in a lecturing tone. "And he's right – you're the one your sister is after. Going out there would only endanger everyone involved." Prince Charming is then piping in as well, with some words about _hope_ and _working together_ that have the Queen glaring at them both, looking betrayed.

"That settles it," says Prince Charming, with a nod of grave solidarity at Robin, who takes the out gladly and rises to his feet. "We thank you and your men for your service and shall eagerly await your return."

Robin inclines his head briefly, excusing himself without a second look at the Queen – much to the benefit of them all, John thinks. She's bent an ear toward Snow White, who's taken to whispering things that appear to do little by way of improving her mood, and the Queen waves her off as she and her Prince take their leave as well.

With Robin's back turned to her now, that careful blankness finally starts to slip, exposing something bleak beneath the surface as she watches him go.

John doesn't think he's ever seen her look so small before, so violently helpless, and the thought that even the Queen, of all people, could use a bit of reassurance from time to time comes as a powerful shock to him.

He would hardly be the first to describe himself as a sympathizer to the Queen (making a habit of dropping the "Evil" had been a challenge, but Robin had remained ever-firm on the issue, so); all the same, he can't help but slow his steps, wondering, and wishing much to his own surprise that he could make this right somehow.

Robin turns somberly to John once they've reached the exit, clapping him over the shoulder with a grimacing "I think that went rather well, don't you?"

He walks off, calling behind him that he's off to spend the rest of his morning with Roland before they all head out, but John loiters back for one final glance as the doors close on the Queen at her throne, pale-faced and stricken, and utterly alone.

…

It takes a bit of wandering around – he's never been particularly attuned to her habits or her usual hauntings, not in the way Robin always seems to be – but John finds her eventually, a solitary shadow amongst the lush, vibrant colors of spring in this terrace garden she'd come to for solace.

The Queen, it seems, has been expecting him.

She's standing at the balcony with her back to the entrance, an archway of mossy old stones where John has just crept to a stop, and she motions her hand to him without turning, wordlessly summoning him forward.

John approaches her feeling a little bit sheepish, coming to stand awkwardly beside her with a jerky sort of bow. "Your, er, Majesty."

The Queen doesn't respond right away, not even an unkind remark on improving his manners; she only gazes down at the courtyard below, something desolate but hard in her expression, as a single blossoming vine twines its way up to them, gaining meters of height before his eyes. It winds around a baluster toward her hand where it rests on the ledge, wrapping a loose branch around her ring finger, while another segment creeps along the marble paving to put down roots by their feet.

John is suddenly, overly conscious of how much slighter the Queen appears this close – how delicately built, slender-limbed and barely reaching his shoulder – for a woman with the power to ruin the earth if she wished it.

She seems to have locked herself inside with her worries, a heaviness there she's tried to contain, and he thinks that might have something to do with how small she looks, too.

He supposes he ought to explain himself, why he's sought an audience with her in these private-most parts of her castle, but then there's a soft sighing sound, a resigned movement of her shoulders that lets him know he doesn't have to say a word.

She doesn't beat around the bush, for which he's immensely grateful; the longer he delays, the more paranoid he grows that a certain inquisitive someone will stumble upon them here, and he suspects the Queen would rather face an army of the Witch's creation than have Robin be privy to this conversation between them.

"My sister may try to make things difficult for you."

John nods, understanding. It would be foolish not to plan for as much. "She can't have figured out what we're after, though? You and Belle worked in such secrecy, and—" he clears his throat, and adds a bit bashfully, "I'm not even sure _I'll_ know the right plant when I see it."

The Queen shakes her head, actually deigning to give him something that might almost pass as a smile before she's looking away again. "That doesn't worry me. Besides, it's not the plant that she wants."

A _What, then?_ hangs in the air between them, unspoken, but John's fairly certain he already knows the answer.

The vine twists and spirals mid-air again, sending out more little shoots to anchor themselves into crevices in the marble railing. The Queen seems almost distracted a moment, absently touching her other hand to one of the sprouting green buds. It blooms for her in an instant, white-petaled with a blush of crimson at its center, dancing up against her hand with a playful sort of tenderness that she returns with a soft brush of her finger.

A new branch has worked its way over toward John, nudging itself firmly past him as it crawls and crawls over the rest of the ledge down by his side. Other buds are beginning to form along the branches near his feet, and he shifts sideways to avoid accidentally stepping on them.

"She takes after our mother in a lot of ways." The Queen's voice has a faraway quality to it now, but there's a chill to that distance, a hardness that tells him she's steeling herself against the very memory of the woman.

"Unhinged?" suggests John before he can help himself, stopping short of asking whether her mother had flown around on broomsticks, too.

"She knows people's weaknesses."

"We're a strong lot," John insists to her, trying to sound optimistic. "Quite able, and cunning at that, enough to give even your knights a good runaround back in the day. So if it's weakness the Wicked Witch is looking to exploit…"

"Not yours," says the Queen. "Mine."

Her jaw sets, and there's anger in her eyes, a deadly flash of it that John cannot look upon directly without feeling a shiver go through him.

The vine, to his horror, has begun to grow thorns, pricking small, punishing holes into her skin as the branches tighten and tighten around the fist she's just formed. She doesn't even flinch, only gazing down with a cutting intensity at that brightly flourishing flower; and as her fingertip traces a gentle path down one petal, that crimson center trails after her touch, seeping slowly outward to stain all that white.

"My mother always knew."

The petal edges begin to blacken, shrinking and shriveling away from her touch, and she pulls back with a harsh satisfaction, the leaves and branches turning an ugly, ashen grey before the entire vine disintegrates with a crackling hiss.

"It's not your fault, Your Majesty," John hears himself say, low-pitched and entreating. "It's not like you can stop the sun from setting any more than you can keep other things"—people, for instance, like his bonehead of a best mate—"from choosing the path that they take."

"Oh, but can't I?" she smiles again, a sharp-edged gleam that doesn't reach her eyes this time, and John thinks he's finally caught a glimpse of that Evil Queen in her, restless and eager to claw its way out.

John shakes his head, unable to speak.

But that darkly glimmering urge – that compulsion to bend another's will before her own – is gone again in a second, and then she is back: this curious other side to the Queen, who seems to have more coloring to her heart than the average soul would know how to handle.

A shuddering breath leaves her, and she looks away from John as if it will keep him from seeing her struggle; but still he can feel the tense stillness of her, the effort it's taking to let herself soften, and to suffer for it, for the sake of someone else.

"You have my word, Your Majesty. I'll make sure I get him back to you in one piece."

John almost thinks that she'll deny it, refuse to acknowledge any sense of what he's saying.

The Queen is gazing out at the land ahead of them, nothing but green surrounding her castle and spreading, beyond, where the midday sun has blotted out the horizon.

She's yet to heal the scratches on the backs of her hands, he notices as she slips them carefully down in front of her.

"See to it that you do," she tells him, before turning a heel and walking away.

…

The expedition gets off to a rather unremarkable start, the handful of them setting out just after the lunch hour to an even smaller gathering who've come to see them off outside the castle gates.

"Please be careful out there, Robin," Snow White says earnestly, a sentiment her Prince readily echoes as Robin shifts Roland into her arms, trading him for the bow and quiver she'd been holding onto while they said their goodbyes.

"You may rest assured that I will," he tells them, giving Roland's hand a squeeze as the boy reaches out with a pouty lip to touch their fingers back together.

Snow White bounces him up and down on her hip, tickling beneath his arms until he's a squirming, giggling mess, and then she's glancing askance at Robin as she admits, "We…may have pulled rank on Regina earlier, getting her to agree—"

"In a manner of speaking," amends Prince Charming.

"—to let you go," Snow White finishes, and she and the Prince exchange a rueful sort of look. A faint smile is playing at the corners of her mouth, a fondness there that John does not think the Queen would take too kindly to see. "She only pretends not to listen to us. But you didn't hear that from me."

"I think I know the feeling," Robin says, with a private little smile of his own as he promises next, "I won't let Her Majesty regret it." He gives Roland's hair one last affectionate ruffle before peeling away to join the rest of the group.

"Take care of yourself, Robin," the Prince calls after him with a wave of his hand.

"What am I, a tent pole?" grumbles John as Robin pauses beside him, adjusting the strap for his quiver.

"The one holding us all together, you mean?" Robin winks at him, and John rolls his eyes good-naturedly, walking ahead to the sound of Robin's chuckling behind him.

John had not expected the Queen to make an appearance, and surely enough she's nowhere to be seen – not to say, of course, that she hasn't other, less conspicuous methods of keeping an eye on them, and he's half-thrown even now by the unshakable sense that she's somehow all around them, a phantom scowl upon their backs as they march on.

Robin, he notices, swings his gaze back toward the castle more than once, searching, squinting into the sunlight for a glimpse of something that he cannot find, and there's a heaviness to his exhale as he turns around again, jaw tense, eyebrows drawn together.

John recalls that look on her face, its calculated stillness to mask the storm brewing away underneath, as she talked to him about weakness and mothers who clearly know best. Once they've returned, he thinks with another side-eye at Robin's brooding expression, something will surely have to be done about these two.

In the meantime, the Queen had given them very explicit instructions on how to proceed with their quest – which John is soon irritated to find that not everyone had committed to memory when Much, whose purposeful walking had given off a rather false impression of confidence, pauses to tilt his head at an awfully familiar-looking stream.

"Well I _was_ trying to pay attention when Her Royal Highness was explaining, but then I thought, what with the both of you coming along, where was the need?" protests Much, seeming to shrink under the weight of John's glowering.

More cognizant than ever of the vow he'd made to the Queen – and still unable to convince himself she hasn't devised some way of following them after all, though he's oddly comforted by the thought – John lets his steps outpace Robin's just enough to place him at the head of their party, under the guise of providing some sense of direction.

The castle has already fallen out of view, swallowed into the rise and dip of the hillocks and then draped over in fronds and those dense, curtain-like willows, lining the very edges of the Enchanted Forest to welcome them back.

This place will always feel more like home to him than dark, cheerless corridors and those cavernous rooms closing them in, though at the moment he might very well prefer to be back there instead. John had been looking forward to the prospect of this trip ever since the Queen sanctioned it herself. After all, and what were a few flying monkeys and some jealous green witch woman when he could finally be _home_ again?

While a little peril is certainly nothing they haven't faced before in their years of thieving and cavorting about, enduring the Queen's wrath is an entirely new kind of danger that John would rather not risk if he can help it. So he hurries them along as they travel deeper into the woods, clearing his throat and making other disapproving sounds when Much and Alan chatter too loudly, or linger too long when they stop for water.

Robin, on his part, says very little, cataloguing everything around them with such quiet intensity that he might have been standing back in that hall with the Queen, letting the memory of her voice and her very careful descriptions guide him forward.

It's an ancient part of the forest she's led them to, the weight of its history almost a palpable thing in the air. The trees towering above them are immeasurable in their vastness, their trunks broader than any John's ever seen, with thick, gnarled markings that take eerily face-like shapes whenever the sun half-throws them into shadow.

After veering left at the hunchbacked oak, they come upon a field of daisies that the Queen had repeatedly stressed for them to detour around rather than cut straight across; and surely enough, if John squints at just the right angle he can see where the ground between daisies simply drops away, a relic of some great disaster that had carved out a ravine there centuries ago.

"She knows the forest well," John remarks, a hint of awe in his voice.

Robin smiles, almost to himself as he murmurs in agreement, "That she does."

The path has grown unruly, the dirt-packed firmness of it giving way to spongy, uneven patches of moss, snarling roots reaching up to snag at their bootlaces with each step. Nestled at the base of each tree are tiny succulent bulbs, their waxy surfaces a translucent gleam, with a bright-colored sap stored within each one.

"Watch your step," John warns when Alan treads a little too close to one of them and the neighboring bulbs quiver and pulsate threateningly in his direction. "Remember what the Queen said about those."

"Right," says Alan as he shudders. "Don't offend them, unless you want to get spat at with some flesh-eating toxin." He carefully withdraws his foot, eyeing them with a nervous sort of curiosity as they move on.

"There," Robin says, nudging his arm into John's.

A hollowed grove flickers into view up ahead, its opening cluster of trees bearing a distinctly patterned bark exactly as the Queen had described. It plays with John's vision as they approach, the surrounding sun seeming to bend in impossible ways and fracturing into miniature rainbows of light upon touching every edge of each tree.

"We're here," Robin tells the group, slipping his hands out of his gloves.

Momentarily dazzled, John inches closer until the images begin to straighten again, and he sees it, shards of something crystallized in the bark, filling into the cracks and traveling a jagged path up into the branches as though mapping out lifelines. The leaves are thin, delicate things, catching light and glinting down at them like so many pocket-sized mirrors, and there's a faint tinkling chime whenever a breeze sways them into each other.

John briefly touches the bark, tracing the crystalline grooves, and a penetrating chill shoves its way into his finger, numbing him up to the elbow before he's able to fully wrench his hand away. Massaging his forearm, he feels the sensation there slowly return, and he wonders – not without a little thrill that should be fear but isn't – what the Queen might have in store for her sister, with this kind of magic at her disposal.

Robin is making his own thorough study of the trees before them; then, without turning his head, he inquires, "The dagger Her Majesty gave you?"

John hesitates for a fraction of a second – he doubts very much that the Queen would approve – but Robin's always had the steadier hand, and John would hate for them to have come all this way for the Queen only to procure broken fragments of whatever she needs.

He retrieves the dagger from his belt, brushing aside a piece of vine that's gotten tangled around the loops, and then passes it gingerly over.

Nothing had struck him as very remarkable about the weapon at first, with its standard-issue sheath and handle; but the Queen had made such a ceremony of presenting it to him that he cannot doubt the magic it contains, and as Robin turns it over in his hand, the blade gleams with a strange metallic blackness that looks almost silver when he tilts it to the light just so.

"Dragonglass," he surmises after a moment, furrowing his brow back up at the trees, and John is left wondering just what sort of friend the Queen might have acquired this dragonglass from as he steps back beside Much and Alan, keeping half an eye out for their surroundings while Robin brings the blade tip to the stem of a leaf.

John cringes for the grinding sound of glass upon glass, but it doesn't come; the blade swipes cleanly through instead, like nothing more than an apparition, and the leaf seems to dangle there for one indecisive moment before gracefully detaching itself and drifting down, down, into Robin's outstretched palm.

"Wait," says John, "Her Majesty said not to touch them—" He breaks off as Robin lets out a small grunt of shock, swiftly raising one edge of his cloak to catch the leaf as he lets it drop from his hand.

"Without your gloves on," John finishes lamely as Robin, wincing still, bends down to examine his palm, a violent redness beginning to bloom there.

"What have you done?" grumbles John, angling in for a better look himself. "The Queen'll have my—"

"No, it's fine," Robin frowns distractedly at him, lifting his cloak to show him the leaf. A misty white vapor is leaking out of the broken end of its stem now. "All in one piece."

Unbelievable. "And your _hand_?"

"Just a scratch," dismisses Robin, already shaking his fingers loose and switching the blade to his uninjured hand, steady and sure in his movements as he rises up and divests the branch of a few more leaves. He collects them into the folds of his cloak, asking almost as an afterthought, "What were you saying of the Queen?"

John is saved the trouble of answering by Alan, who's just untied a small burlap sack for Robin to store the leaves in, and they begin the painstaking process of transferring them inside, Much scooping up clumps of soil to provide some cushion in between.

"That should suffice," says Robin eventually, gently brushing the last of the leaves through the opening. When Alan secures the bag closed and offers it to him, Robin shifts it into Much's arms instead, winking, "You're the fastest one of us, should we need to make a run for it, and I daresay you've learned the way by now."

It has a more sobering effect than he'd likely intended, and he casts a grim eye to the skies as he hands the dagger back to John. Their travel conditions have been exceedingly favorable thus far – dare he say even concernedly so – but now, with that much more to lose on their way back, John can't help but hold his breath, and feel as though the forest itself is doing the same.

He returns the dragonglass blade to its sheath, swatting absentmindedly at that pesky vine still attached rather stubbornly to one of his belt loops. Much is already several strides ahead of them, moving with a new kind of alertness, while Alan brings up the rear with a too-casual hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a half-moment's notice.

John reaches to fiddle with the crossbow slung at his back, more to feel reassured by its solidity – so he tells himself – than out of any true sense that he'll need it.

He doesn't miss the way Robin holds his injured hand close, carefully still against his leathers, while his other hand flexes almost restlessly around his bow. It won't be an easy thing, John realizes, for him to draw in time if they get caught off guard, and the thought has him fully detaching his crossbow from its straps, bringing one end to rest atop his shoulder.

Just in case.

It also doesn't escape his notice that their pace has picked up, swift if not yet breaking out into something more like a run. Their steps are muffled by the springy moss at their feet, and the silence now is almost too loud, John thinks, pressing them forward with more and more urgency, as if they could bring the forest back to life by sheer willpower alone.

Robin is notching an arrow to angle down at his side, the fletching loosely gripped between two fingers, and even that small allowance has him fighting a grimace when John steals another glance his way.

"I'll be all right," Robin tells him, and in the back of John's mind sits a defenseless Queen on her throne, watching Robin walk away from her with all the ease and the lightness of any other day.

They've just come upon the field of daisies when they hear the first sounds of it.

A deadening pause, as though the air has just emptied out around them, time itself bending with the weight of what's to come – and then a powerful gust has them stumbling back as the beasts descend, their wings spread long and wide to take out the sun with each beating.

They circle vulture-like overhead, red eyes ablaze, and John, counting out nearly a dozen, curses their odds as the first of them positions its body into a steep dive.

"Much – run!" yells Robin, taking aim, and his arrow flies true, slamming into the monkey's throat with such force that it tears through to the other side. A sickening sound fills the skies, a strangled, gurgling gasp for air, and its body plummets down toward the meadow while a violent shrieking erupts from its neighbors.

"Much, _go_! Get to Regina!"

But Much, it seems, has made other plans, a dagger suddenly materializing in each hand with such agility that John hardly has time to process it before they're twin streaks in the air, embedding with a thud into the chest of one monkey and the belly of another.

They careen into contact with a nasty thunking of skulls, thrashing wildly as they fall, trying in vain to claw their way back up one another mid-air. They dead-drop straight through the ground, the sounds of their screeching abruptly swallowed whole by the ravine, and a gentle breeze skims over the nearby grass, daisies waving merrily back as it goes.

John jogs up ahead to draw the other beasts apart, and when another sets his sights on him, he's more than prepared for it, releasing the trigger and almost cringing in sympathy when the bolt strikes it square in the eye.

There's barely enough time to reload his crossbow when he hears another shrill cry – too close, far too close, this one – and he turns a half-second too late to find his shot, the monkey advancing on him with a powerful gnashing of teeth, wingtips closing in until they're nearly brushing into the sides of his face. John's twisting around for the Queen's blade, cursing when everything seems to fumble; the monkey's breath is hot and clammy on his skin now, and he can only raise an arm instead, bracing—

—and then the whites of its eyes roll upward, its body staggering before crumpling sideways as though suddenly boneless, and he sees the arrow protruding from the center of its back.

"Thanks," says John, feeling winded as he hauls himself back to his feet, and Robin gives him a nod from across the field as he pulls out another arrow.

Much, meanwhile, is unearthing all manner of weaponry from within various pockets of his clothes, knives and blades the shape of stars, darts with such an instantaneous paralyzing effect that John has no doubt in his mind their ends have been poisoned.

He might have dwelled on this longer if not for a looming shadow in the trees, crouched just above where Much has been stationed a stone's throw from Robin; and when the monkey lands a moment later in a heavy heap just by his feet, a bolt buried deep in its side, the lad clears a good half-meter of air with a startled yelp, nearly dropping his knives in the process.

Robin has shown no signs of slowing down either, thank the gods, features set in watchful lines as he clears arrow after arrow from his quiver, and Alan—

"Where the hell's Alan?" roars John, launching himself out of harm's way just in time as a monkey plunges down to grab at him. It barely misses the ground before lurching back upright, claws scraping up dirt to slow its momentum, and in those precious few seconds of resettling John has heaved back up himself, landing a solid kick into the side of its knee.

He can't shoot close-range like this, but suddenly he has the Queen's dagger in hand with no memory of reaching to grab it, and he hasn't a moment to wonder if it's brittle enough to break upon impact before the monkey – screaming now – lunges for him again. He swipes out in a downward arc, cutting across the monkey's chest and feeling the blade slice neatly through muscle.

"Alan!" Robin's gaze sweeps about for their friend between shots, and then he's shouting, "Much, look out!" as one of the monkeys still airborne makes a swan-dive in his direction. Robin's arrow just scrapes its arm, shredding a hole through its wing on the way out, but the beast flies on, unfazed, John scrabbling to ready his bow as it draws closer and closer.

Much is two steps ahead again, a blur of motion as he's hurtling forward toward John. He'd slung the Queen's cargo frontways across his chest to better protect it from being jostled about, straps drawn tight at the shoulders. He bands his arms around it now, bearing down with the whole weight of his body, and then his legs are up underneath him, all elbows and knees as he throws himself into a tumble.

He rolls and rolls, gaining speed, and then just as he nearly comes to blows with a bush he's pulling himself abruptly out of it, unfolding sideways with the knapsack still carefully sat on his chest, another set of throwing stars already whistling through the air. There's the _thwhip_ of a spring as it recoils, and then John's bolt is soaring up to join them.

But the monkey seems to have altered its course mid-flight, easily dodging their weapons this time as the others fly forth to convene by its side. They re-circle, hardly glancing back at Much, and John realizes, with a rising sort of dread that roots him helpless to the spot, that perhaps Much's acrobatics have landed him exactly where the beasts had wanted: chased off to one side next to John, who's just used the last of his bolts, while their glowing red eyes fix upon their true target.

Robin stills as they hover above him, almost as though they're waiting for something. His bow slowly lowers down to his side.

"You will let my friends go." He addresses the largest of them, a hulking, broad-chested thing, its features twisted up with such unbending cruelty as to leave little doubt that this is their leader.

"No!" yells John, starting forward, and one of the smaller creatures swings an ugly gaze on him, hands outstretched toward Robin and flexing violently into the air.

"John. Please." Robin's voice is calm, unwavering, his eyes never straying from the monkey's; then, in a quieter tone, sharper-edged with the hint of a warning, "Leave them alone and I'll go with you willingly."

There's a raucous chittering all around them, gestures impatiently made at the leader for entertaining any sort of discussion about this, but it only stares Robin down, unblinking.

John feels Much's grip on his arm holding him back.

He takes stock of everything lying between them, the fallen monkeys slumped out across the field – some pinned down by their paralyzed limbs, some still shifting about in a daze, their breaths coming out in a rattle, while others are lying very, very still.

The bolt nearest him – the one he'd sunk into a monkey's eye – is just within reach, the body in question crushed against a tree but a half-meter away from where John stands. Even then, he's immobilized by the too many steps involved in making it there without costing Robin his life, and his fists tighten uselessly around his crossbow.

Beside him, he can sense Much cautiously taking stock of his own weapons, patting himself down with a careful touch here and there. He gives a near-imperceptible shake of his head.

John feels his throat close, his heart plummeting down into his belly as though the ground has just dropped out from under him, and all he can do is fall.

At last the monkey leader gives a slow nod, having reached a silent agreement, and Robin shrugs himself free of his quiver, as smoothly as he can manage one-handed, holding it out along with his bow.

The monkey is signaling for one of them to swoop in and disarm him when a commotion of things are suddenly happening all at once. There's a deafening boom, and then with no concept of how he'd wound up there John finds himself belly-down on the ground, the world upended with the wind fairly punched right out of his body.

He opens his mouth and gasps in mouthfuls of thick, curling smoke. A faint ringing buzz has stopped up his ears, and he shakes his head back and forth, trying to get rid of it.

The first thing that filters through is the sound of someone yelling.

"Take that!" the voice is roaring, and then there's a strange, squelching pop followed by a series of small explosions, a sizzling hiss and a high-pitched shriek as the air fills with the horrible smell of something burning. "Take that, you mangy—sniveling—no-good, hairy-assed—"

"I take it Alan's finally caught up with us," comments John to no one in particular, his body creaking in unfamiliar places as he staggers back up to his feet, head swimming.

"Here," says another voice, this one a lot closer, and Much is handing him one of his bolts, slippery and still warm with blood.

"Thanks," John grimaces, grabbing his crossbow and slotting the bolt into place. He's pleased to feel only slightly off-kilter as he takes off in a jog after Much.

Alan is standing tall beside one of the monkeys when they finally locate him through the fumes, hands in proud fists at his sides. Patches of the creature's fur are still smoldering and half-melted around charred, gaping flesh, blackened bits of bone peeking out at odd angles. Entire sections of its wings have been blasted away, leaving behind thin, blood-rimmed edges of black. Thickly congealing puddles of orange drip down from each wound, still bubbling ominously in some places.

Several feet away, two more of these beasts have suffered a similar fate, one of them caked in some brilliant shade of purple, the other doused in vivid blue.

John endeavors not to breathe through his nose too much as he asks in a stifled sort of voice, "Alan, what on earth?"

Alan opens his hands to them, those small toxic bulbs piled up in his palms, and he grins a bit sheepishly when John levels him with an incredulous expression.

"But how did you…?"

"I asked them nicely," shrugs Alan, and yes but of course that is all it would take, appealing to this murderous flower's more considerate side. "I explained the circumstances, that Her Majesty would be more than obliged for their timely assistance, and—" at the sight of John's eyebrow disappearing up into his hairline "—well hadn't she said I only ought to be _polite_ about it?"

That is not at all how John had thought to interpret the Queen's words himself, that it need only take a proper convincing, to carefully ply them with kindness. He's about to say as much when he leans to stretch out an ache in his side, heel clearing the ground for a moment, only to nearly turn his ankle upon stepping back over something firm and solid buried into the grass.

Robin's bow.

Alan and Much stare down with him, a terrible fear gripping them all dumbly in place, and John feels the world threaten to give way beneath him for a second bloody time.

It's been quiet, he thinks with a dim sort of recognition. Far too quiet.

Ripping himself out of his stupor, John barrels blindly past the others, letting the smoky haze engulf him for several too-lengthy seconds before it starts to thin out, and then he sees him.

They're some meters away, the monkey leader reared onto its legs, and Robin, backed into the broad trunk of a maple, the length of his body in stiff, guarded lines to hold himself as far away from the beast as he can. His face is tense and grimy with sweat, one of his sleeves badly torn up, and even the slightest movement has him wincing and drawing himself further in.

He's weaponless, and grimacing openly as the monkey hangs over him, an oozing trickle of blood matting down the hair on its arm. It's grasped a clawed hand into the trunk above Robin's head with such force that the bark splinters off, raining shards down over him.

In the precious moments it takes for John to lift his crossbow, the monkey has raised its other hand high, fingers hooking into the air with violent intent, and Robin is pushing himself off of the tree with a final shuddering effort, whether to deflect the blow or attempt one of his own, John can only guess, because at that exact moment his crossbow misfires.

It's the only logical thing to conclude – he'd hardly had time to take aim, much less move his thumb to the trigger – and yet, the unmistakable sound of a bolt being discharged, the thin _whoosh_ of it cutting through the lingering smoke, and an odd streak of something green, spiraling rope-like behind in a blur—

He feels a forceful tugging right at his middle, lurching him forward as though the bolt is somehow dragging him after it, and then just as suddenly he feels himself being let go, dropping with a graceless _oomph_ onto the grass. He pushes himself onto his arms with a groan, just in time to see the curling end of a vine shooting up into the air just above his head. It hovers there for a half-second before taking off with a _crack!_, and ahead there's a shrill screech as John sways back to his feet.

The monkey's thrashing and flailing have calmed into a spasming lump on the ground by the time John makes his way over to it. The bolt has lodged itself below the monkey's collarbone, a hair's breadth away from where John guesses its heart must be. The thickly circling vine continues to tighten, tighten, tighten around the monkey's throat, until that horrific gasping finally stutters into silence.

John hears an awestruck mutter of "Blimey" from Alan behind him, while Much comes up by his elbow to stare down with his jaw slightly unhinged at the sight.

Breathing heavily on John's other side, Robin kneels in front of the monkey to make a proper assessment of the vine. One end of it has wrapped around the bolt's fletching, and it loosens upon Robin's touch, relaxing into a limp as he trails a thoughtful finger along the green stalk, gently thumbing over its thorns. A single flower has begun to bud, and when his knuckle brushes against its side a bloom of white forms, its petals unfurling to reveal a spot of deep crimson in the middle.

He cups his hand over the flower, slipping it off of its stem, and it sits dwarfed by his palm, in pale contrast to the burns spread tense across his skin there. Down closer to his wrist, several areas have split open slightly, like he's been badly scratched by something.

He leans his whole body over the flower, face close, disappearing it from sight for a moment with a quiet rise and fall of his shoulders. His fingers close carefully around the petals as he rises, faltering, back to his feet, letting John grip his arm when his knee seems to give out just a little.

"Curious plant," is all he remarks, a slight rasping tinge to his voice, and John manages a vague noise of agreement in response.

He watches Robin bend over the monkey to extract the bolt from its chest, studiously avoiding his gaze when he stands upright again.

"I believe this is yours?" Robin asks evenly, and John utters a gruff thanks as he takes it from him.

Much has sidled up to Robin, arms cradling the knapsack to his chest as one might a small child. A pointy assortment of blades and stars that he'd retrieved on the way jut out from between fisted fingers, their edges rust-colored with blood and carrying bits of grass and debris and other things John can't stomach thinking about at the moment.

"Doing all right?" Much wonders timidly as he re-pockets his weapons.

"Nothing that won't pass," Robin assures him, nodding his gratitude when Alan passes him his bow and quiver. He shrugs the quiver back over his head one-handed, his movements steady but painstaking, accepting his bow next with another murmur of appreciation before letting it hang by his side. A fresh sheen of sweat has formed across his forehead, and he knits his brows together, clearly having overexerted himself in the last few moments.

John exchanges a worried glance with the others.

"This place is not our friend at the moment," he says at last, scanning overhead for any new cause for alarm in the skies, a telltale change of the wind or some slight shift in pitch that might signal more trouble to come. But everything remains still, the smoggy remnants of their battling now fully emptied out of the air, layering grey soot and ash all over the field instead.

The last of the monkeys that had managed to stay just barely alive have finally ceased their moving. The sight of them sprawled and spread-eagled around them is a rather ominous thing to take in, a message of provocation they'd never intended to send to the Witch.

John looks askance at Robin. He still has the right amount of color to him, but the longer they delay their return, John thinks, the less and less certain he is that he'll be able to keep his promise to the Queen. "We need to get back to Her Majesty."

"Yes, I'd certainly hate to keep her waiting," Robin says wryly, with the first hint of a smile crinkling the sides of his face, and he holds that injured hand of his just a touch closer to his middle, fingers still curled protectively around the flower he'd plucked from that vine.

Shouldering his crossbow, John nudges his way back to the front once again, pausing only to collect the rest of his bolts while Much darts about to do the same with his daggers. Once they've made it past the hunchbacked oak without mishap, John lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, thinking of how relieved he'll be to see the Queen in all her glowering temper upon their return to the castle.

Alan has lingered behind with Robin, taking care to match his slower strides, reaching out with the occasional hand to assist him without being oppressive about it. It spares John the time to scour the neighboring areas for something to munch on here and there as they go, gathering up modest handfuls of berries and refilling their water skins when Much suggests they make a quick detour back to that brook.

"How do I look?" Robin asks with a water skin halfway to his mouth, a twinkle of amusement in his eye when he catches John in a sidelong stare. "Will Her Majesty be pleased to see me like this, do you think?"

John scowls at him, fairly dreading the answer to that question himself. "Best not lead with that when we get back, if any of us want to keep our heads."

"No, I don't think Her Highness would hurt us," Much says earnestly, "least of all Robin." He thoughtfully chews on a few berries before reaching for the knapsack, shrugging out of its straps. "You ought to be the one who gives this to her."

"Not in the slightest," Robin disagrees kindly, pressing the bag back over to him. "The honor is all yours." He takes another heavy swallow before beckoning them onward, and John is rather vexed to notice a slight limp in his step now, his bad arm circling more and more closely around his torso as if to contain something that's troubling him there.

But every now and again, that hand lifts back up as Robin ducks his head carefully down; there's a soft glimpse of white, fluttering out to touch the tip of his nose halfway, and then a wondering smile that he can't seem to contain, holding more power over him than any bruise or lingering ache in his body. His strides lengthen to even out with the others', and he gently refuses the hand John holds out to steady him, a new kind of determination spurring him forward.

The forest seems to have taken its own efforts to smooth out their journey, branches parting unbidden at the barest whiff of a breeze, roots shifting out from underfoot with a creaking groan as they pass. Even the sun has pushed its way through the dense swaths of treetops, filling in every dark, shadow-smudged corner below.

It's no trick of the mind, John thinks, no leap to conclude what might have nudged them this way, and as the draping willows part on the sight of her castle rising over the hillocks, he's no doubt in his mind that the Queen is already waiting for them.

…

She's stooped low on the wide, stone steps, her back to them when they round the last line of elms flanking the gates. She's not alone, John notices: there's a gleeful peal of laughter, a "Regina, that's _cheating_!" and then a distinctive brown mop of hair popping out from behind her shoulder.

Scooping up an armful of whatever they'd wagered in this game they were playing – pine cones, it looks to be in this case – Roland makes a mad dash toward the other end of the steps, giggling delightedly all the while, and the Queen indulges in the tiniest of smiles as she stands and strolls after him.

She's dressed differently than she had been that morning, having traded those harsh black leathers for something much softer, some velvety sheath of deep burgundy with sleeves that taper loose at the elbows (the better for wrangling a four-year-old boy should he decide to get naughty, John supposes). Her hair is half-down and even gone a bit wild at the ends, the golden glint of a brooch now pinned proudly to a little thief's cloak instead.

John's made it another three steps before he realizes that Robin has stopped walking entirely, and he glances back over his shoulder to find him simply standing there, slack in the jaw as he stares at the Queen and his boy, every part of his body marked so deeply with longing that moving at all seems to have become an insurmountable task.

Feeling as though he's stumbled onto something very private, John forces himself to look away.

Much is suddenly standing a good half a head taller than before, and even Alan is clearing his throat and absently flattening out the wrinkles in his clothing. It's of little use, of course – they all look more or less like hell at this point – but John lets one minute slide into two, loath as he is to interrupt this happy little moment of Roland's.

Robin takes a faltering step forward, his expression still half-steeped in wonder like he's walked into some kind of dream. The Queen has caught up with Roland, and with a beaming grin he plucks a pine cone from his pile, graciously offering it to her like she's just won a prize. Her answering laugh startles John into staring himself, the sound of it really quite lovely, rich and unrestrained as she smiles and smiles down at the boy.

Out of one corner of John's eye, he sees Robin's hand flexing open and closed, tense with the effort of holding himself back from these things that lay just out of his reach. He swallows, and then at the sound of the Queen's laughing again he's drawn another step forward, unable to resist it much longer, as Roland discards his pine cones and makes grabbing motions at the Queen in a request to be picked up.

He talks happily at her ear, still oblivious to their return, but John has detected the subtlest stiffening in her back, her shoulders squaring with awareness even though she hasn't yet turned around to see them, and he knows there's no point in stalling any longer.

Much looks more and more nerve-wracked as they walk on, fiddling with the bag straps and obsessively patting down its contents to make sure nothing feels broken. Alan, perhaps feeling self-conscious for coming back empty-handed himself, rummages into his trouser pockets before procuring the last of those little exploding flowers. At John's pointed look, Alan only shrugs, telling him, "Seemed a shame to toss them. I thought perhaps Her Majesty might like to have them instead."

That pulls a smile out of Robin, and he clasps his uninjured hand over Alan's shoulder. "Good man."

"Papa!" Roland has spotted them at last, his voice jumping in excitement, and Robin's smile widens to crinkle his eyes, growing stronger with each passing step. "Look, Regina! Look, they're here!"

The Queen's gaze swerves round on them, sharply scrutinizing as she takes in each of their sorry-looking states before landing with a pressing finality on Robin.

Her eyes sweep and sweep over him, large and inscrutable, but what she sees has the rest of her body freezing, half-poised as if to charge forward. The only thing that's prevented her from flying apart at him, it seems, is the boy in her arms, currently babbling a pleased "Papa, I played with Regina today!" that has Robin forcing his gaze away from the Queen to grin obligingly back at his son.

"I trust you had a good time?" he calls to him. They've come close enough now for the Queen to have noticed the gingerness in Robin's steps, the careful way he's held himself together to keep from limping in front of her. Her eyes narrow suspiciously at him. "I too am quite fond of Her Majesty's company."

And then he must have the nerve to be so outrageous as to wink at her, because she looks positively furious with him for a moment, her nose flaring slightly, her jaw clenching in an effort to control her tongue.

Much is the first to reach her, having skipped ahead in his eagerness, and she's momentarily startled out of her anger when he materializes at her side with a deep bow of his head.

"Your Majesty," he says, burning a deep scarlet when she turns her full attention to him. He presents her with the bag of her magical plants. "Where would you like these?"

"Belle should be in the library," the Queen tells him, in a tone quite devoid of any airs they're used to getting from her, followed by an entirely unexpected "Thank you, Much," that has him blushing all the way up to his ears.

"No, thank you," he rushes out. "For the, uh, the poison darts, I mean."

She almost smiles at him. "How did they work?"

"Oh, they were fantastic," grins Much, "tremendously satisfying, how effective they were, you should've seen the way those monsters just _froze_ mid-air—" Then, as though remembering himself and his manners, he stammers out, "Right, I'll just be on my way then," before scurrying up the stairs toward the castle.

She looks genuinely pleased when Alan shows her the flowers next, the wriggling bulbs standing to attention when she peers down her nose at them.

"What's that?" asks Roland curiously, trying to bend down and inspect them himself, but the Queen only chuckles and turns gently sideways, discreetly shielding him from view.

"I'll tell you later," she whispers to him conspiratorially, nodding back to Alan as he follows Much inside. "_After_ they've been safely put away. Okay?"

"'Kay," says Roland, brightening as John and Robin approach them at last, and the smile that the Queen had put on for the boy tenses at the edges before slipping completely away. John is bracing himself, an apology at the ready for not quite making good on his promise to her, but her eyes seem to glaze right over him, unseeing, before settling most distressingly on Robin.

"Papa!" Roland grins. "Regina said you would be here soon."

"And here I am." On any other day Robin might have taken him straight into his arms, but instead he reaches with his left hand to briefly squeeze at Roland's outstretched fingers, his other hand still held in a loose fist to his torso. The Queen zeroes in on it immediately, searching, but he only quirks up one side of his mouth, a rueful sort of smile that doesn't last long when she glances up at him, looking stricken.

"We played games when we were waiting for you," says Roland into the gaping silence between them. "I even let her win sometimes." He looks quite pleased with himself as he proceeds to inform Robin, lowering his voice to an overloud whisper, "I took good care of her today, Papa. Just like you asked."

"You did very well, my boy." Robin's smile makes a faint comeback, his tone gently teasing as he adds, "I like what you've done with her hair."

The Queen can only stare at him, Robin's eyes steady as ever on hers as he takes another halting step closer, his limp unmistakable now. Her gaze falters, finally darting with a frantic sort of energy all over the rest of his body before snapping back up to his face. Her expression is one of quiet dismay, half-desperate for some kind of answer from him, though a sense of propriety and perhaps something more has kept her from reaching for him to find out.

They both open their mouths, but the words never form, the Queen dropping her gaze and sucking in a sharp breath as if to gather herself again while Robin moves ever so slightly above her, and perhaps there's more to say than either of them can hope to manage with each other at the moment.

Though from where John's standing, these things that haven't been said couldn't be any more starkly apparent to him.

Roland is now describing at length how he'd played a sneaky trick on her earlier, pointing at things to distract her so he could steal pine cones right from under her nose. Robin bites into his lower lip, not quite succeeding to hide his amusement. The Queen, on her part, appears conflicted, halfway to smiling herself, until her eyes stumble back over his hand. Her mood shifts, darkening, as she looks brittlely up at him again.

But there's such a softness in the way Robin's gazing at her that it seems to break her down just a bit, and she wavers forward the slightest degree before something inside her seems to resist it, settling her firmly back onto her heels.

Tired out from his storytelling, Roland is unwrapping himself from around the Queen's neck and shifting in a restless manner, his desire to be held by his papa quite clear. Robin opens both of his arms on instinct to him, but even that simple motion has twinged at something deep in his body, those bruises and blows that John cannot see, and at Robin's barely held wince he's hurrying forward to intercept Roland.

"Uncle John's got you, little tyke," he tells the boy soothingly, depositing him onto one hip. "Let's let your dad and Her Majesty have a chat, yeah?"

Roland looks put out, but his pout turns right-side up again when John suggests to him, "Shall we go count up how many pine cones you've won today?"

He sets the boy onto his feet, nudging him over a handful of steps to plop himself down by his small hill of pine cones. While he begins to rearrange them according to size, John crouches beside him just so, letting his gaze drift over and over to Robin and the Queen in a way that he hopes is not too terribly obvious.

Not that it much matters, John realizes after a pause; the two of them might as well be off in their own little land together, what with the way they've been staring at one another.

The Queen has clasped her hands in front of her, fingers stiffly locked together, her shoulders forming rather sharp squares as though it's taken everything she has to keep herself still. But her eyes are telling a different story, open and depthless and drawing Robin in as she gazes and gazes at him, or perhaps they're both right at the edge and ready to fall now, John can't be certain.

And then, slowly, like something only inevitable, she reaches for his hand, slipping her fingers around his wrist and pulling him cautiously forward. He goes to her willingly, standing just enough over her that his nose nearly touches her forehead when he angles his head downward, and he lets her turn his hand over, unfolding his fingers until part of his palm is exposed. The flower he'd plucked from the vine sits nestled there, its petals now with a slight droop to them, though their coloring is as brilliant as ever.

Her eyes lift up to search his again, and she clearly hadn't realized how close his face had gotten; the dwindling space between them seems to throw her, compromise her in some way, and she's much less careful about the way her gaze lingers on his mouth before she's making a small clearing sound in her throat, turning her attentions back to his hand.

She brushes the flower gently aside, her fingertips hovering in a not-quite-touch over all that had hidden beneath it.

The scratches he'd glimpsed earlier, John realizes, were not mere scratches at all but claw marks, spreading their poison into the burned parts of Robin's skin. That swath of angry red is almost purple-hued now, with a raise of small blisters dotting his palm to his wrist. Thin lines of black have threaded over the offending areas, veiny things branching out and out from each other like the markings of a leaf.

The Queen shakes her head, looking distraught. "I didn't…" Her lips press together, and she stares balefully down at Robin's hand, her voice sounding strained as she tells him, "I'm sorry. This never should have happened. If I had just…"

But Robin only shrugs a shoulder, murmuring, "I can't say I mind terribly much at the moment."

The reproachful look she gives him is half-hearted at best, softening slightly when he smiles down at her in a lopsided fashion. But then his expression sobers and she's stiffening again as he tells her, his words quiet but firm, "It's not your fault, Regina."

She tears her eyes away from his, a new kind of storm now gathering behind them before she focuses determinedly back on his hand. Her fingers trace around the outermost edges of redness, over the base of his thumb, down the lines of his wrist to curl almost protectively around his tattoo. "I'm sure I have something that can help with this."

Robin lets out a chuckling breath, his gaze warm on hers as he wonders, teasing, "Should I be surprised?"

She blinks up at him for a long, disbelieving moment, like she can't seem to fathom why he's still looking at her this way.

Roland has completed his counting, but upon a second go-around – perhaps to check over his work – his face scrunches in confusion, and he pokes a finger at each pine cone much more slowly this time so as not to miss or double-count a single one.

"You've forgotten that one over there," John whispers into his ear, and Roland frowns at the pine cone he'd pointed out, contemplating.

"Nuh uh," he disagrees finally, by now so thoroughly sidetracked that he has no choice but to start over anyway. He lets out a dramatic little sigh. "One, two…"

Feeling only slightly bad about his interference, John glances back over to Robin and the Queen.

She looks poised to step away from him, but he's taken certain liberties with her hand, capturing her thumb with his, sliding their hands sideways together until her palm's flush with the backs of his fingers. He moves his thumb over her knuckles in a wandering caress, and the Queen hesitates long enough to let his fingers twine themselves over hers, tugging her back to him.

He turns her hand over until he has a full view, examining it just as carefully as she'd done his. The little gouges that vine had made on her skin are still there, scratches and scabbed-over welts that she apparently hadn't bothered to see to, and Robin frowns, his voice rough and softly accusing as he asks her, "Regina, what is all this?"

There's a lengthy pause, and then she's meeting his eye in a blaze of defiance as she tells him, plainly, "I was gardening."

There's something like wonder on Robin's face as he simply stares at her for a moment, like he can't be certain that she's real. The Queen stares back, half in challenge, half in dismay, that he should have guessed after all at these things she'd thought she'd hidden so well, and her expression turns almost imploring when he raises her hand to his lips.

He presses a kiss to the back of it, taking care not to disturb the wounded areas. His mouth lingers there and then travels upward, leaving another kiss to one of her knuckles before dragging over the length of a finger as her hand shifts in his hold. Slowly, cautiously, she touches the tips of her fingers to his lips, looking mesmerized by the way that they feel, and her eyes flutter closed for a second when he kisses her there too.

There's a soft movement of sound – a shaky intake of breath, a sigh of something almost too ragged to be one of just relief – and they're leaning forward at the same moment, foreheads brushing together, moving into one another as though neither can stand to hold themselves back any longer.

The Queen's other hand is over his chest now, fingers gently making contact before trailing down, down, until they're resting just over his belly. "May I see?"

"Whatever you want," he rasps, his expression bare and open and so achingly tender when she looks questioningly up at him. "I'm yours."

The Queen's hand curls into his tunic, carefully tugging up at the hem. Her gaze flicks back to his more than once, assessing him for signs of discomfort, but the most he gives her is a wan smile, his breath shuddering out when she finally loosens his shirt from his trousers. He reaches with his good hand to grasp at her waist for support as she explores the extent of his injuries, pressing tenderly into his side.

There isn't much to see, at least not from where John's kneeling – the faintest tinge of green to his skin, not a bite nor a claw mark to speak of – but Robin's expression tells a different story, wincing outright as the Queen's fingers probe closer toward his middle.

"I'm all right," he tells her hoarsely when she freezes, uncertain, "Do what you must," and he frees up her other hand, releasing it in favor of gingerly sinking his fingers into the hair around her neck instead. His eyes close as he rests their foreheads back together, his face grim but unguarded, trying to relax for her sake.

The Queen, after another moment, lets her gaze drop down again, and then she's pressing with both hands this time, a bright violet-white glowing out of her fingertips and settling deep into his skin. Robin draws in a sharp breath, and she puts a hand on his arm to steady him, her magic spreading, searching – _healing_, John realizes, from the inside out, as the tension seems to leak out of Robin's entire body, half-collapsed into her with a groan of relief.

Her light intensifies, piercing through him a final time before breaking off into dazzling fragments, blinding them briefly and then guttering out.

John vaguely registers the dull, hollow _plunk_ of a pine cone being dropped, and he turns to see Roland with his mouth halfway down to the ground.

"Is that better?" asks the Queen, stepping back slightly as Robin blinks his eyes open and seems to gather his bearings again. He shifts his body as though to test things out, the Queen watching with some consternation all the while, until their eyes lock and hold.

"Considerably, yes," says Robin, and then he's snaking his arm around her back and tugging, the Queen falling into him with a quiet little _Oh!_ as he leans over and presses his lips to hers.

Roland lets out an audible gasp, hastily clapping a hand over his mouth before turning big saucer-like eyes onto John with a _Did you just see…?_ sort of expression – and John, much to his own embarrassment, realizes he's been looking at Roland in much the same way.

They exchange silent beams of approval before swiveling back in unison, Roland continuing to gaze up at them in a rapt fashion while John does his best to stare a little less obviously.

After a moment of looking quite rigid, the Queen has gone all soft in Robin's arms, one hand reaching up to touch his jawline as he kisses and kisses her. When they part, his breathing is just a bit ragged – for other reasons entirely now, John would be willing to wager – and as it evens the Queen nudges a little kiss of her own to the corner of Robin's mouth, appearing almost shy when he bites a lip and smiles at her.

He bends down to kiss her once more, perhaps taking his time to convince her of his wellbeing, and doing so thorough a job of it that the Queen is the one who looks out of sorts when he eventually pulls away. She hums out a small sound that has Robin nuzzling a kiss over her brow instead, brushing the tip of his nose against her forehead while she sighs and lets his grip on her loosen.

"We should go take care of that hand," she tells him, and though he looks loath to release her completely he nods his assent, holding an arm out for Roland to take on their walk back up to the castle.

"No, Papa," says the boy solemnly, standing with a comical firmness alongside John. "Regina has to make you all better first." He turns to give John a great wide grin, everything about him the very epitome of a wink at the moment.

"We'll see you lot at supper," John offers, hoisting Roland back onto his hip, and Robin nods gratefully to him before taking the Queen's hand into his, as naturally as if he'd always done so with her.

She blinks up at him, looking startled but far from displeased, and John sees her grip on him tighten a fraction when he takes a step forward, her whole body poised to move quickly if needed.

They're both breathing out twin sighs of relief as Robin moves on unhindered, glancing back at the Queen to tease her, "Are you coming, or…?"

She bristles, but only a little – out of habit, John thinks – and then she's letting Robin guide her onward, occasionally glancing down at their clasped hands like it's utterly foreign to her, walking with someone this way.

He missteps once, halfway up the staircase, the Queen nearly having a fit as he staggers into her to keep his balance – and while she's busy fussing he plants a daring kiss to her temple, looking smug when it stuns her into speechlessness for one long, unblinking second.

"This hand isn't going to heal itself, you know," Robin prompts her with a devious twinkle, as though wondering what else he might get away with, with her. This time she glowers a genuine glower, which does little to help her case at all and in fact seems to charm him immensely, his smile widening as he nudges her up the stairs with him.

"You've gotten bold," she frowns.

"Oh, the audacity," he agrees in mock outrage before leaning in to steal another kiss from her.

"Gods help us all," says John resignedly, trudging after them while a pleased-looking Roland giggles into his ear.

…

It is indeed not until supper when the two turn up again. Alan and Much have taken it upon themselves in the meantime to spread fast-growing tales about the events of that afternoon, each version more and more dramatically told until it's unclear whether the leader of the Merry Men even has a hand left to speak of.

Princess Snow levels John with an inquiring gaze more than once during all this, looking satisfied when he dismisses their antics with a shake of his head.

Roland, on his part, is most fascinated by the shrubbery that the Queen had been so mysterious about, asking again for a detailed description of how they'd helped save the day. This time, as Alan proudly tells it, he's singlehandedly raised a whole army of these magical bulbs, and they're pelting themselves toward the monkeys at his command.

It's a rather animated retelling, with Alan inadvertently putting his elbow into a nearby bowl of pistachios – the sounds of them scattering not unlike a miniature version of the explosion he's describing – just as the doors to the banquet hall open.

Robin slips in with the Queen just behind him, pausing at the threshold as he murmurs something in her ear. His hand has been thoroughly bandaged, his sleeves pushed up just enough for John to see not a trace of those claw marks remaining, the dark lines of poison wiped out – and now a prancing white lion disappears itself into the Queen's hair, her cheek leaning into his touch for a moment.

There are faint smudges of kohl near her eyes, the red of her lips now but the slightest pink tinge – which John tries very hard not to speculate on – but there's a calmness too, something hushed and secret passing between them before they finally move to join the others.

"Papa!"

Roland clambers onto the bench as Robin sweeps toward him with all the force of a father's smile, his eyes impossibly bright. The boy fairly leaps into his arms, throwing limbs everywhere, clinging koala-like to him while Robin cradles the back of his head and whispers soothing things in his hair.

He finally lands a sound kiss to Roland's forehead, coaxing him into a more natural resting position alongside his hip while the boy takes a peek at his bandages, expressing his awe that His Majesty was able to grow Papa's hand back so quickly.

"She made it good again," he marvels.

Robin looks down, his smile a soft, private thing. "She has that effect, yeah."

The Queen cracks half a smile of her own behind them, but as Robin deposits his son back onto the bench and prepares to seat himself as well, John sees her waver, shifting a hesitant gaze over the rest of the table.

The others have begun to crowd around Robin, loudly demanding to hear his side of things, and though they mean no harm by it – already jesting about how he needn't have tried to go die just to prove himself to anyone – something shadow-like flashes across the Queen's features, a bleakness that John is starting to recognize all too well in her.

"Regina?" Robin is looking back at her then, reaching for her hand, but at the sight of his bandages there's another uproar of questioning, dragging him away from her again.

She's poised to flee when John clears his throat, just low enough that only she seems to notice, turning to pin him with one of those half-hostile stares she always has at the ready.

He raises an empty tankard to her, nodding his head with an encouraging smile when she looks almost confused by his gesture.

He slides the glass over to the empty setting beside him, just across from Robin. Much has helped himself to Robin's utensils, and he's miming his way through a demonstration of how he'd bested the monkeys when he loses his grip on a knife he'd been "throwing," the tip of it burying itself with a quivering thud into the table inches away from Robin's hand.

John gives the Queen a wincing grin, a shrug that says a resigned _Well, what can you do?_ that makes her lips purse in disapproval.

After a moment in which John likes to imagine her silently seething over her options, she marches stiffly forward, tucking her skirts aside as she takes the seat next to him.

"Thank you," she says, crossing her hands over her lap.

John leans over, pitcher in hand, to pour her a sizable share of the ale. He's careful not to look her too directly in the eye as he corrects her in a quiet tone, "No. Thank _you_, Your Majesty."

She blinks very rapidly at him, opens her mouth before closing it again. To save her the trouble of admitting to anything – or denying it all, as is most likely the case – he unfastens the sheath of her dagger from his belt loops, offering it over. "I expect you'll be wanting this back."

The Queen shakes her head, waves him off. "Keep it," she says, her tone low and almost, dare he say, playful. "Someone tells me you've earned it."

Robin, meanwhile, is gamely enduring the clamor around him, chuckling while Roland helpfully scoops piles of food onto his plate. But each time his gaze drifts back to the Queen, and then everything seems to stand still, a warmth settling between them, until John rather wishes the other men could take a hint and leave them both be for a while.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," says Much, a bit bashfully, and the Queen is not the only one to look his way in surprise, to hear him address her out of the blue like this. "I was wondering if you might be willing to teach us a little about the plants we encountered today, and if—" he balks for a second, unnerved by her staring "—if we could be of more service in protecting the castle with you."

His ears turn a bright shade of red while the Queen regards him, unspeaking, and Robin glances carefully at his plate, keeping his smile trained down toward the yams that Roland has just plopped there.

"Well, if you really want to know," the Queen begins, sounding just a touch dubious, and then she looks entirely taken aback by the scuffling around that ensues as the men shove themselves onto nearby benches, grabbing up pints and gazing absorbedly in her direction. "I suppose we could start with the tree that you found."

"Was it made of ice?" Alan blurts out.

"You numpty," says Much right away, "did _you_ see any of it melting on the way back? _Ice_, what utter rubbish. So sorry, Your Majesty, please go on—"

John excuses himself to refill their pitcher, the ale having run out mid-pour, while Alan and Much glare at each other in some kind of standoff. They're vying even more ambitiously for the Queen's attentions by the time John returns, though she doesn't strike him as terribly bothered at all, even perhaps a bit charmed in spite of herself.

And it's all so tentative still, so new and uncertain, but as Robin's hand weaves just a bit tighter with hers beneath the table, their knees brushing together as they both look away, John knows without question that things could not have ended – nay, just begun – any other way than this.


End file.
